"You're still just a kid. You wouldn't understand," you said. His eyes narrowed instantly. "A kid?" he repeated, his voice low and tense. "I’m not small, and I’m not a kid. You need to stop talking to me like I don’t know anything."

He turned abruptly, storming off before you could respond, leaving you standing there.

Weeks had passed since that argument, and you hadn’t seen much of Ethan since. Now, here you were, standing on the side of the road next to your broken-down motorbike. It had sputtered and died.

As you fumbled with your phone, contemplating whether to call for help, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

Ethan.

He was walking back from school, his bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds hanging around his neck. His pace slowed, a smirk curled up at the corner of his lips as he took in the sight of you and your stranded motorbike.

"Oh look," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "do these adults need help from little kids now?" Before you could respond, Ethan was already crouching down next to the motorbike, inspecting it with practiced ease. His fingers traced the engine with familiarity.

"Just wait."

His attention was back on the engine, his focus intense, as though fixing your bike was somehow also his way of proving himself—to you and maybe to himself too.